Aramis captured
by Vivien99
Summary: Aramis is captured by Grimaud, who doesn't like it that the musketeer tried to escape at all. A lot of hurt and tortured Aramis, a bit of angry Aramis.
1. Chapter 1

_Hey there!  
So this is my first fanfiction I've written in english. My native language is german, so it was a challenge for me to fit my writing style to the English language. It would be great if you could correct me and give me tips to improve my writing. I'm thankful for every kind of help. _

He cursed his numb fingers, while running away from his persecutors. Aramis stumbled but continued to run, as he heard a shot behind him. „Don't shoot!"

Shocked the musketeer saw how Grimaud came out of the woods. He was surrounded, it was hopeless to flee. Nevertheless Grimaud gave him a glimmer of hope. „You need me alive." A poised smile was on the lips of the hunted. At least he didn't need to fear for his life anymore. It gained him time to find a way to escape.

„Alive, but not intact," clarified the man as he climbed from his horse and then commended his mercenaries to bring Aramis back into the ruins, in which they kept him.

The musketeer didn't fight back, as he knew that would bring him more suffering. New chains were placed around his hands and feet, before two men lifted him up again and onto the buttress. Now, as the adrenalin finally left his body and he was brought back into the unnatural posture, Aramis felt the sharp pain in his shoulder and the throbbing in his head. But there wasn't much time for self-pity. Grimaud came back through the old archway, the crucifix, which helped Aramis open his chains, in his hand.

„I'm sure your god wouldn't like it, seeing such an important symbol misused for your own selfish purposes." The mercenary threw the crucifix back into the fire and turned to the soldier, who looked at him with hatred eyes. „You wouldn't even notice god, if he opened you the gates to heaven," he replied. Grimaud styed unimpressed as he took the glowing crucifix. Aramis watched how the leather of his gloves slowly burned.

Roughly Grimaud ripped his shirt apart and hold the hot iron in front of Aramis' eyes. „I wonder if God is still by your side." With these words he pressed the crucifix onto his prisoner's chest. Endless seconds went by, in which Aramis tried to suppress his pain, until he finally gave in and let out a groan. Before he even had the time to catch his breath, Grimaud pressed the cross on his chest again. Three times, until he finally stopped.

„A soldier knows no pain, huh?" Grimaud threw the crucifix back into the ash. In this short unobserved moment, the musketeer took a deep breath. But, before even noticing that his tormentor has turned back to him, he felt a fist in his stomach. Three, five, ten. He lost counting sometime and concentrated on breathing. But even at this simple task he failed. Everything was blurred, while his head throbbed harder than ever before. As soon as he tried to breathe in the next punch hit him. It felt like hours in which he thought he would pass out in any moment.

Grimaud stopped, as Aramis couldn't even groan in pain anymore. His ribs hurt and as soon as he tried to get air into his lungs, a sharp pain spread in his thorax. Exhausted and only half conscious Aramis let his head fall down onto his chest. At least this pain distracted him from the one in his shoulders on which his whole weight hung.

„I always thougt a soldier, a musketeer, a protector oft he king would be stronger." Aramis didn't answer, he didnt even look up. Even if he always had a cocky commentar on his tounge, he didn't have the strength for it then. Furthermore he was scared. Scared to show that the words hit him indeed. Fear. Something others thought, Aramis wouldnt even know how to spell it. Why should they? He never showed weakness, he would have given his life for the queen, the king and the dauphin without even thinking twice. Though it always followed him. Everytime he pulled his sword or the trigger, the fear pulled him into her darkness. To fail was always his greatest – and only – fear. To fail like in Savoy. To fail like right now in this moment. He failed at the peace negotiations and at hiding the secret letters from Grimaud.

Lost in his thoughts Aramis hadn't noticed that two watchmans changed place with Grimaud. Meanwhile it got dark and the fire didn't spend warmth anymore.

Without someone to talk to and without anything to do, Aramis got lost in his thoughts again. They were chaotic and tangled. From his brothers to the queen and back to his escape plan. He did not only lose any sense of time but consciousness too. From time to time he fell into a restless and short sleep. Four times he woke up scared and sweaty. Every time he tried to close his eyes, he saw how Grimaud murdered his brother, the queen or his son. After the musketeer decided that he could not endure such a nightmare one more time, he prayed. After four years of doing nearly nothing different than that, it brought him peace and a feeling of safety. Of course he never prayed for himself, but for his loved ones. Again and again he muttered his prayers like a mantra, his gaze fixed on the burned crucifix.

The first rays of sun lightened the sky as Grimaud came back. „Haven't you learned, that you god won't help you here, musketeer?" Clearly still angry because of the attempted escape, Grimaud took Aramis chin in between his fingers and forced him to look into his eyes. Eyes that never have seen love, eyes that are the gate to a lost soul, Aramis thought. „You should know that I don't like it when someone tries to escape." He let go and reached for a musket. „Sadly we have to let your beautiful face untouched. Your loved queen shall want you back after all. A hard stroke hit Aramis knee, who let out a painful groan. He didn't know how many times the musket have hit his legs, as they started to feel as numd as his arms. Only as Grimaud hit his ankle and a loud crack followed, the soldier coudn't hold back a cry of pain. Fortunately Grimaud let off of Aramis after that and sat beside his mercenaries.

Groaning, Aramis tried to ease the pain, but didn't find any satisfaction. So he hadn't another choice than living with it and to watch the three men, how they ate and drank. His throat burned, from not tasting any water in nearly a day. He literally would do everything for just one sip. One of the mercenaries noticed his gaze and walked towards him with a cup of water. Hope filled the soldier, even though he knew it was stupid tot think he would get something of the precious liquid. As expected, he got the drink denied. Instead the man wasted the water, with spilling it into Aramis face. Thursty as he was, Aramis lowered himself to licking the leftovers off his lips. It was nearly nothing, still he tried to convince himself, that it was at least something.

The laughter oft he mercenaries got interrupted by a shot. Instantly the men spread to the openings, which once were windows and they reached for there muskets. Aramis didn't need much time to react and to warn his savers. „10 men and 16 gins!", he shouted as loud as possible, before Grimaud silenced him with a hard hit into his face. For a while Aramis was only able to hear the shots fired and how metal met metal. But after a few minutes Porthos bursted into the ruins. Two men attacked the colossus, as two more dragged Aramis down. The musketeer gave his best to fight back, but soon the strength left him. So he was dragged out of his prison, without knowing if Porthos was winning or losing his fight. Not far away he got thrown into the arms of Grimaud, who held him right in front of his body. The gun pressed hard against his temple, as he tried to stay on his feed. But even in his state, Aramis understood knew directly what was happening, as he saw Porthos, the musket aimed at Grimaud and him. „Shoot Porthos! Shoot us both!", screamed Aramis.

Repeatedly he requested his brother to kill him and this monster, which held him captive, until a gun was shot right beside his ear. Grimaud pushed Aramis to the floor, before he fled in to the woods.

„Why haven't you shot?!" Furious Aramis tried to get up and stumbled. Porthos should've killed them both, he had to! Without reacting to the curses of their brother, Athos and d'Artagnan ran up to him.

„You're hurt," realized the youngest concerned and laid an arm around his shoulder. With the support of his friends Aramis was able to stand up. It was quiet, no shots fired, no horses or swords were heard. With the sounds, left the adrenalin. Suddenly Aramis felt the pain in every part of his harassed body. His ribs, shoulders and ankle burned, while his head throbbed. Only his arms didn't hurt, lifeless they hang down to his sides. He leaned more into d'Artagnan and was led to the horses by the Gascon and Athos.

„Can you ride?", asked the captain concerned. Aramis wasn't sure, but hat else should he do? So he nodded and was helped to get on the horse.

The ride back to Paris seemed endless. Every time his horses hooves hit the ground a sharp pain filled his chest. His right leg hang down useless and the rains laid loose in his still numb hands. Since the atmosphere between him and Porthos was so tensed, no one dared to say a word. Trying to distract himself from the pain, Aramis started counting the steps. At 1000 he counted only every second step. At 2000 he closed his eyes every now and then. And at 3000 he sat loos in his saddle.

Only half conscious he didn't notice how the captain and d'Artagnan appeared to his sides, to lead his horse. Also he didn't notice how they stopped. „Aramis, you need to get down." Startled the soldier straightened himself and nodded. „Yes. Yes, of course." One look down changed his opinion. Normally it wouldn't be a big deal for him, but now, with his damaged ankle, he was scared of touching the ground. Not only because of the pain, but also because the others could see in how much pain he really was. Somehow he got down anyway, but he stumbled a bit.

„A physician should see after you," suggested Athos, but Aramis rejected instantly. He lived through much worse situations without the help of a medic, he wouldn't need it now. „Only a few bruises, nothing big." Skeptical, but too exhausted to discuss this, Athos let him alone. He would send Constance after him. Held by d'Artagnan the marksman limped up to his room. After sitting on the bed, he asked the Gascon to leave him alone for a moment. Only after the door has closed, Aramis tried to get off of his shoes. Pain shot through his leg, but he made it somehow. After years of experience he knew that this wasn't a simple fracture. Careful he felt along his ankle, a small cry of pain left his lips.

He just tried to patch up his ankle, which turned out to be difficult with numb fingers, as the door opened again and Constance came in. A concerned look was on her face, as she saw the injured. „Let me help you," without waiting for an answer, she kneeled in front of the bed. Aramis wanted to protest, but he knew it would be useless.

After she patched up his ankle, Constance looked up to the soldier. „Do you have more injuries?"

„No. Everything's fine." „Aramis." With a strict look, like only mothers can have, she saw into the soldiers eyes. Sighing, he finally gave in and opened his shirt.

A shocked shriek left the womans body, as she spot the three cross-shaped burns and his bruised rips. Quickly she reached for a cream, which she carefully rubbed in. Aramis flinched at the painful touch. As sorry as she was, she couldn't do much for his ribs.

„Anything else?" Worried she sat down beside him and inspected him from head to toe. „And I warn you hold back anything from me."

The musketeer sighed once again. He hated to be fussed over like this, but even more he hated to seem weak. He could look after himself very well. In all these years he patched up more men, than he have killed. He can deal with some bruises himself. But Constance strict gaze frightened him a little bit.

„My head. Nothing big. Just a hit, throbs a bit." The woman looked after it with careful fingers. It was just a bump, nothing more happily.

After assuring that the musketeer didn't hide any other injuries from her, she went to get food and water. Aramis was dying for some fluid.


	2. Chapter 2

_After writing the first chapter in german at first and then just translated it, I decided to try to write it in English immediatlely and I think this was the right decision. It was a lot easier to fit my writing style into the English language now. I'm still thankful for every review from you!_ After eating properly, drinking, washing himself and having a quiet long sleep, Aramis awoke from a scream. His own one. Sweat dripped from the Musketeers bare chest, as it raised heavy. He needed a few moments to realize that he was in the garrison, home and safe. Grimaud was nowhere near him and his brothers were outside, making sure that he wouldn't have the chance to get to him ever again. Still, the fear clenched to him like a lost child. This feeling was way too familiar to Aramis. After just getting over Savoy, he didn't need another years of restless nights. Sighing, he searched for his clothes. He hissed, as he lifted his arms to get his shirt over his head. The numb feeling in his arms had left, instead they now burned just as much as his shoulders. His lungs still troubled him while breathing, but not as much as in the beginning. Just a second before standing up, Aramis remembered his ankle. Right beside his bed stood two wooden crutches. No, he wouldn't embarrass himself like that. Never in a million years. So, holding back a groan, he stood up. Pain shot right through his leg, but he clenched his teeth together and walked – or more likely limbed – out of the house. Outside, a few musketeers trained with swords or muskets, while others sat together eating lunch. He really had slept long. His gaze wandered around until he found his friends on one of the tables. Trying to suppress the pain, he walked over to them. Smiling, they greeted their injured brother.

"Aramis! Come on, sit down." D'Artagnan patted the place to his left side. Thankful, Aramis sat down, letting out a breath he didn't noticed he had hold in. "How are you?" Athos asked concerned, with tired looking eyes. Probably he wasn't awake much longer than Aramis was, after a night full of alcohol and blaming himself for nearly everything. "Good. I'm good. Only aching arms." He smiled with the easiness, he always had. It comforted his friends, knowing he was still the same. Nevertheless, all of them were still skeptical about the marksman's well-being. After realizing the concerned looks, Aramis once again assured him that he was fine and was going to be back in a few days. And he didn't lie. Physically he really felt well, except from his ankle, which probably would need a bit longer than _a few days._ About the fear that still hadn't left him, he wouldn't talk with his brothers. They just would get worried. Something that wasn't more than unnecessary in times like this. All of them needed to stay focused on finding Grimaud and keeping the royal family safe. The Spaniards gaze wandered over to Porthos, who hasn't talked since his appearance. Aramis knew him too well, to not to know what was going on. "You don't have the right to be angry at _me,_ Porthos", he exclaimed, trying to keep himself calm but anger building up inside him. How dared Porthos to be angry at him, when he was the once who had all the right to blame his friend? Because of Porthos Grimaud had the chance to escape! They could have killed him, ended this whole nightmare. Porthos shot a glare to the marksman. Unbelief and anger laid in his look.  
"I have no right to be angry at you? Are you serious? You wanted me to shoot you, and then you blamed me for letting you alive! Have you really expected me to kill a brother?" The colossus stand up, showing his whole height and strength. Others would be afraid of him, knowing he could kill them with ease. But Aramis knew better than to be scared of his friend. Porthos had a big heart and wouldn't lay a hand on him – if not completely necessary. To beat one level, Aramis also raised from his place, holding on to the desk to support his legs. "You HAD to do it! When you have the chance to kill Grimaud, you have to do it!"

Porthos was about to shout something back, as Athos interrupted the fight. "Enough! Sit down, you're worse than an old couple." He massaged his temple, before continuing. "Porthos, stop being angry at Aramis, it's just childish." Aramis grinned satisfied, but stopped as Athos looked at him. "And Aramis, stop blaming Porthos for the decision he made. Every one of us would have done the same, you included. You know too well, that you also would never kill one of us for Grimaud. Think about." Ashamed both looked down, before mumbling apologies. Athos was right; Aramis would never kill one of his brothers just to get Grimaud or any other monster in this world. Still, he wishes Porthos would have done it. It may would have taken his life, but saved and revenged a lot of others. "And now, let us go. We have to be on time at the palace, before the feast starts."  
Agreeing the musketeers stood up. Simultaneously d'Artagnan, Porthos and Athos looked at Aramis. "You stay here. You can't even walk, you have to rest." Not giving Aramis the chance to argue, d'Artagnan explained that the marksman wouldn't be useful in his state. The youngest was right, of course. So Aramis had no choice but to stay behind, while his brothers went. He didn't like that at all. The Spaniard didn't want to seem weak. He wanted to show, that he was strong as every other musketeer in the regiment and that such an incident couldn't hold him back. But it could. Angry at himself and his broken ankle, he kicked a wall, crying out in pain. Limping around the garrison useless, Aramis got more and more frustrated. He needed to do something. He even asked in the kitchen to help, but they were already down with the meals. IN the training area he caught sight of a musket lying around unattended. Grinning, the marksman walked over to it and picked it up. He loaded the weapon, aimed and shot. Ignoring the increasing pain in his shoulder, he looked up to the target. He only hit it on the edge, far away from the red ring in the middle – which he used to hit every time he shot. Frustrated, tried again. He lost count how often he had shot. But it clearly was too many times. Just once he streaked the red circle. Some bullets even missed the whole target. He let out an angry scream while throwing away the musket. That was impossible. Aramis was good in just a few things. Using his charme, stitching wounds and fighting were mainly these things. But he was only _very good_ in one thing. And that was shooting. The only thing he was actually better than the most people. His only talent. The only thing that made him important for the musketeers. He nearly never missed his target, no matter how far away he was or fast it moved. He never missed. Until now. 


End file.
